


Waypoint

by enemyfrigate



Series: Waypoints [1]
Category: Justified
Genre: Anonymous Sex, M/M, Pre-Series, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemyfrigate/pseuds/enemyfrigate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan may be close to being engaged (he’s pretty sure he’s going to ask her, but jewelry stores give him hives) but on the road, out in the limbo of chasing down leads, off the leash and mostly out of touch, he gives himself a little leeway</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waypoint

Raylan may be close to being engaged (he’s pretty sure he’s going to ask her, but jewelry stores give him hives) but on the road, out in the limbo of chasing down leads, off the leash and mostly out of touch, he gives himself a little leeway. Once he’s engaged, he won’t look for anything else. But Winona can’t give him this, and he ain’t ready to give it up yet.

He pushes open the door of a massive truck stop in eastern Texas, three hours from Houston, hell, three hours from anywhere, and looks for the local talent. He knows better than to pause in the door, this isn’t an old western where the mysterious stranger has to look over the saloon’s patrons for old enemies, and drawing attention to himself doesn’t gibe with any purpose he has here; his hat is still in the car.

Without it, dress shirt hanging unbuttoned and loose over a thin undershirt, road stubble a little more prominent than usual, hair fresh cut short only because he’d been trying to talk a lead out of a barber, he looks like just any traveler passing through. Raylan gives the dessert case a once over in the glare of the 2 a.m. daylight that holds sway in the truck stop diner and checks out the greasy room from the side of his eye. He keeps his glance moving, to give neither offense nor encouragement.

The kid who catches his notice sits elaborately distanced from the friend next to him in the booth, the same impulse that makes teenage boys leave empty seats between themselves at the movies, probably, but he looks up and meets Raylan’s look, blinks once slowly. He’s got messy hair, kind of a dark blond, falling over his face, but his eyes are very clear, intent blue.

Raylan licks his lips, tilts his head toward the back. The kid raises a hand and lets it drop.

After a slow trawl through the convenience store, Raylan buys a bottle of Coke and wanders through the complex like he knows where he’s going. He doesn’t need to know the layout to find his way out back. There’s always a bunch of doors in these places, makes it easy for truckers and travelers and fugitives to duck out for drugs, prostitutes and blowjobs by underage red state teenagers.

The boy is waiting for him in a dark corner behind a mechanic’s bay, smoking a cigarette. Raylan steps into the same shadow. The kid’s got a pretty fucking mouth, and Raylan starts getting hard just looking at that cupid’s bow.

Before he can start anything, Raylan has to get one formality out of the way. “How old are you?”

The kid drops the cigarette and steps on it. Drawls, “Seventeen.”

“Good enough.” Raylan snags the kid by the shirt, a battered plaid flannel, and the kid steps to meet him. Raylan has to bend his neck to kiss him, but it’s nothing like bending to meet a woman. He pushes their mouths together and the kid, who smells like cigarettes and motor oil, presses his mouth open. He tastes like cheap beer and French fries cooked in old grease. The scent and taste of him digs Raylan’s own teenage fumblings out of the whole vault of stuff he’s tried to bury deep in his memory, but he won’t face rejection and contempt in the here and now, where the only important thing is lust and a willing body, and there’s no love to sour it all. There’s a reason Raylan is here, in the shadows of the business end of an anonymous place like this.

Raylan gets a hand on the kid’s cock, firm and swollen under the oversized jeans, and pulls down the zipper to get closer. The kid makes a high pitched noise as Raylan finds his hard-on, and his breath stutters. Less experienced than he seems, but that’s okay. Raylan can make do with eagerness just fine.

The kid’s going to come fast, that’s what seventeen is about, but Raylan doesn’t want him to finish right away. He wants the kid to feel grateful enough to give him a good show in return. So he works him a little fast and a little slow, backing him off and revving him up, until the kid jerks against his hand, sucks in his breath, and hot come slicks Raylan’s skin.

Raylan is hard like a hammer in his jeans. He licks his lips “You suck cock?” and presses on the kid’s shoulder.

The kid gets down on his knees, awkward, like a young colt, but he wants to go. Competent hands open Raylan’s jeans, shove him back so his ass and spine press into filthy cinder block. The kid gets his mouth around Raylan’s cock. He’s all tongue and wet, sloppy lips, working just the head, easing the rest of the shaft and balls out of Raylan’s shorts with his free hand. He’s not practiced, but this isn’t his first time at the rodeo, and Raylan cannot complain when the kid is rolling his balls and trying to take his cock down his throat.

There’s no need to prolong it. Raylan came here to get off, and by his lights, he’s already done right by the kid on his knees in front of him, so he lets himself go and pushes into the kid’s mouth. The boy tries to keep up. He won’t let Raylan pull out of his mouth to finish, though he makes a face when Raylan comes, and his eyelashes flutter.

He lets go of Raylan’s cock, and Raylan passes a hand over the messy hair, tilting the kid’s head back.

The smoky blue eyes of the boy on his knees don’t leave him as he drags the back of his hand across his come smeared lips.

“Shit,” Raylan says, spine loosened.

The kid tilts his head in acknowledgement, stands up. There’s gravel and fuck knows what else on his knees but instead of brushing it off he fishes a hard pack of smokes out of his pocket. Lights up with a battered old silver lighter he probably stole from his Daddy.

Either Raylan is very tired or this kid has some kind of weird magic powers because Raylan cannot stop watching him. He wants to say something about getting out of there. Something like, Let’s see where the road takes us, as if this is some kind of western and they can ride off into the sagebrush and no one will ever question their being together.

He steps on that fantasy, and steps harder on the idea that he could have something with some man, if only he changes everything about himself and who he thinks he is. Shit.

That’s his cue to get out of here and back to his almost fiancée.

Raylan makes himself straighten up and do up his jeans. His _thanks_ is meant to be the end of the encounter.

The kid just watches him. Tips his chin up, sort of like a nod but in reverse.

Raylan pushes off the wall. Says, “so long.” Wishes he had his hat on, to tip over his eyes and hide him.

“Yeah,” the kid says, in that smoke-roughened molasses drawl that Raylan’s barely had time to enjoy.

 

 

 

The next time Raylan passes through east Texas, six or seven weeks on, he pulls into the truck stop, but the boy isn’t there. He supposes it doesn’t matter whether it’s that boy, or another one; he hardly likes to admit it to himself, but part of him was looking for a sign.

He pisses, washes his hands, and goes back out to the car.

Raylan slides behind the wheel. Digs in his pocket, contorting himself in the driver's seat.

He sets the black velvet box on the seat beside him and snaps the box open. A gold ring and a not too shabby diamond gleam in the harsh glare of the sodium lights.

_This is it. This is the future._

Raylan puts the car in gear and gets back on the interstate, the road to Dallas – and Winona.

He guns it before he can change his mind.

 


End file.
